


Close to Never Sober

by badteeth



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: A Largely Off-Screen Orgy, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, St. Louis Blues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: "We have all night. Then tomorrow, too. All summer."





	Close to Never Sober

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the hedonism/orgy square on my Season of Kink bingo card, inspired by [this photo.](https://twitter.com/patmaroon/status/1139102556267921408) Ryan O'Reilly is a Stanley Cup champion.
> 
> Title from Country Grammar by Nelly, actively the censored version.

And in the end it’s all true: more than joy, more than pride, more than glory.

 

* * *

 

Ryan isn’t the type to hold onto hope, let alone certainty, easily. The game stole his breath with a sharp, queasy pain but still went on, so he did, too, until they fucking _won._

 

* * *

 

It all comes in barely crafting waves. A tendril of pain or fatigue barely has time to make itself known before exultation takes its place: someone screaming, arms over his shoulders, nose to nose, we fucking did it, bud, such a beaut, couldn’t do it without you, Stanley motherfucking Cup goddamn Champions. The Conn Smythe. The full-body thrills feels like something more than real, more than his body or mind can explain or express.

They try, though, fuck do they try. Champagne showers, objectively, should not feel as good as they do. These men—his boys, now, forever, engraved in silver—have driven each half-crazy through hell, and, worse, the day-to-day climb back on and forward and into rapture.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, someone herds the team onto a charter bus and then onto a plane back to St. Louis. Ryan collapses into the first seat he sees; his body is exhausted but the rest of him can’t feel it. It hardly seems to matter. He’s got a Guiness in one hand and a real big trophy in the other. His team is all around him, drunk and delirious. The kids are practically glued together, Eddy losing his suit all over again with Fabs at his back and hands on his hips, with Barbie behind pushing up behind them both.

Finally, Petro emerges from herding in the back with the other big trophy, thirty-five pounds of silver to pay from everything they’ve gone through, their entire lives. Another bubble bursts inside him as Pat slides into the seat next to him. His smile looks painful and there’s a flush high on his face above his beard, eyes watery, as he just says, “We _did_ it.”

“Fucking right,” Ryan replies, because that’s all there is to say.

And then Pat has the Cup, close to crying again, Petro wandering further back with a knowing look in his eye. The plane bubbles with energy even as people get settled enough to get through takeoff. Even if someone isn’t screaming—and they are—the sheer joy frissons through the air. Maybe it’s the 80’s playlist someone rigged up. Pat is cradling Stanley like someone precious, and Ryan has to chug his beer because, fuck it, it’s his, he wants to touch it, too.

It’s warmer to the touch than it was at the rink, but it probably hasn’t been let alone since then, either. He can feel the engraved names of those lucky few legends beneath his fingers. His entire body feels charged. Nine years in the league with most of them ending with a trip out to Worlds, but now it’s _his._ He catches Pat’s eyes again and mentally revises it to theirs, them and their merry band of absolute freaks. It feels like more than he can hold. It feels like—

Pat turns and passes the Cup to Vladi with a slap on his ass, but Ryan doesn’t feel any different and it disappears further into the plane. He’ll join everyone soon. He wants to, he just needs his head or his heart to settle with the throb of the moment.

A hand settles against the side of his face, shaking him gently. He opens his eyes to see Pat smiling fully. The championship hat is far too small for his head. “Checking out on us already?”

“No,” Ryan says. “Just. You know. _Fuck,_ man.”

“I know, buddy,” Pat responds, and then his hand is high on Ryan’s thigh, and, yes, fuck, that’s _exactly_ what he needs. His breath is all caught up in his chest, and he feels his face heat even as he nods off the careful look Pat is giving him. They kiss for a couple awkward seconds before they both laugh. “The beards really gotta go already.”

“No way,” Ryan says, and Pat laughs again before turning his focus on the button on Ryan’s pants. The Conn Smythe gets in the way bad enough that he has to put it down, but it’s a whole ‘nother thing to still be able to see it, on top of how Pat is curling over him. His fingers are thick and drunk enough that it takes a few tries. Everyone is still so present around them. Ryan can’t imagine they’re the only ones working out the nerves like this, if they’re not getting even more messed up, but he feels exposed and raw, even with just his cock coaxed out into Pat’s hand.

Ryan wouldn’t have thought a negative feeling could penetrate the bubble around them, and it doesn’t quite, but Pat still leans in again, uses his free hand to cradle Ryan’s head again and says, “You’re good, you’re _so_ good. You did so much for all of us, just let me take care of you.”

He’d never ask for that sort of thing but the words make his blood rush, hips roll up automatically. Despite the booze and everything else, Ryan gets hard fast, leaking enough to ease the glide of Pat’s hand. It feels good, necessary, like being touched is dragging him back into his body and this glorious moment, another arching release.

Pat jerks him through coming and then keeps going, soothing until a sharp zing of overstimulation pops in Ryan’s stomach. He twitches, and then Pat’s leaning away. A rush fills Ryan right back and he goes with him, taking Pat by the wrist to suck his fingers, the thick calluses on his knuckles and palm clean. He can feel Pat’s eyes on him, and, yeah, this is what he wanted. Taking care of himself and his wants and needs has been a big part of Ryan’s whole maturation into a real adult thing but there’s an even deeper satisfaction in fitting himself past the trophy and between the meat of Pat’s thighs and getting his mouth around him. They have rookies for this sort of thing but Ryan _likes_ it, and Pat isn’t exactly shoving him off. In fact, Ryan feels those big hands touching him again, twisting into his hair, and guiding him forward.

Pat’s a nice guy, patient, which is good because his dick is as big as the rest of him. It strains against the corners of Ryan’s mouth and presses hard against the back of his throat, but fuck if Ryan’s not still ready for a challenge. He’s drooling but he uses his fingers to spread the wetness around, coaxing Pat on as he tries to swallow around the ache.

Pat is louder than Ryan would have guessed at the start of the season but Ryan’s used to it now, even appreciates the ease with which appreciation falls from his mouth. It’s after a particularly loud moan that Vladi reappears over the pack of their row of seats, eyes sharper than they had any right to be.

“You guys started without me?” he asks, mouth curling into a grin. Ryan freezes, an incriminating dick in his own mouth. He pulls up slowly and tries to pull his face into something approaching apologetic.

Vladi scoffs. “No, don’t stop, we have all night. Then tomorrow, too. All summer. Take care of Pat, then I want a turn, yeah?”

Both of them looking down at Ryan, on his knees, is making his heart race even more. A Madonna song is tailing off at the end and he can hear more cheering, more moans further in the cabin. Like this, everything fits together. His boys, his team, his body. All summer.

**Author's Note:**

> mostly on [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | trying to be on [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna) more


End file.
